


treating my memory of you like a fire

by jannah (fromjannah)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dialogue Light, Fix It Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Therapy Arc, not actually RPF, possible ships if you SQUINT, the au is dream smp except nice, tommy never died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 07:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromjannah/pseuds/jannah
Summary: In a more peaceful world, a year after Wilbur's death, Tommy reflects on who his brother really was.
Relationships: Dream SMP Ensemble & TommyInnit, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	treating my memory of you like a fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fensandmarshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fensandmarshes/gifts).



> For new friend/old acquaintance Anix -- wonderful writer and expert of understanding c!Wilbur. A lot of this was inspired by one of your comments about why you dislike the term "Vilbur". 
> 
> Title comes from Wilbur Soot's "Since I Saw Vienna". 
> 
> Mostly everything after January 20th isn't canon here. I'm not quite sure about details but basically everyone gets therapy and learns to communicate properly because it's my fic and I make the rules here. 
> 
> This is about the DSMP characters, not the CCs. Enjoy.

Despite only living up north for a little less than a year, Tommy finds that Phil's attic is filled with stacks upon stacks of various bits and bobs. There's dented armor to be melted down, old books of notes, some rolls of fabric, and plenty of other shit that he doesn't bother to look through -- Phil is birdbrained in the way that he'll collect anything. Tommy's looking for one thing in particular. 

Though there is fresh snowfall outside and an occasional strong wind buffets around the house, Tommy shrugs off his jacket and places it carelessly onto the floor. Its cream-colored fur lining and thick red fabric -- Snowchester's design, though with some scheme changes, a gift from Tubbo -- are too much for this well-insulated house. 

A clamor of laughter and playful yelling can be heard from downstairs -- Tubbo and Ranboo are doing some sappy platonic husbands bullshit together and have left Michael in Technoblade and Phil's care. The now five-year-old zombie piglin seems to be having a fun time. Tommy usually enjoys playing with the kid, but he's looking for something important and he’s not really in a fun mood.

"Techie!" a voice squeals, high enough for Tommy to hear clearly.

"Michael, stop takin' my emeralds -- c’mon, Phil, stop laughin' and help me!" 

Tommy laughs to himself and shakes his head because, naturally, Technoblade's pain is his joy. He rifles through some more things: packets of random seeds, a stack of long-abandoned light blue cloaks that Tommy remembers wearing in exile. His hand stalls over the soft fabric and a memory threatens to barge its way up his throat but he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists and lets the pressure of nails in his palms ground himself. _Just some ugly-ass cloaks_. 

The memory stays down. Puffy would be proud. Tommy allows himself a spark of pride as well. 

He finds a stack of letters as well, bound together with thick twine. From the repeated creases all over the parchments and the messy way the string has been tied over and over again, Tommy can tell that he’s not the only one who’s been wallowing around in the past today. Phil’s perpetual smile had seemed a little rueful today; Tubbo’s as well. Tommy knew that his friend had stopped by Schlatt’s crumbling grave to leave an old tie. 

The letters are tempting, but Tommy pushes them and his inherently nosy tendencies aside. He finally finds what he’s looking for next to a sharp, barely used diamond sword that’s been wrapped tightly in an undisturbed cloth. This dingy corner of the attic had become an alter of sorts, it seems. 

The communicator is clean, with no dried blood on it. But when it’s booted up, it takes a minute to change the date a year forward and load new messages from people who hadn’t known until it was too late -- so Phil hadn’t turned it on, then. 

Tommy spends a bit too long staring at the _WilburSoot_ in the corner of the screen. 

One year ago, Tommy had been a child soldier who had watched his general fall. One year ago, Tommy had been a child who had watched his older brother fall.

Blinking back tears that have surely been caused by the dust in the attic, what the hell, Phil, clean up this place more, Tommy shoves the communicator into this pocket. Not here. He picks his coat back up and looks around for a brief moment, grabbing a random old photo book at the last moment. 

“Found what you were looking for?” asks Phil as Tommy slides down the ladder. Michael still has his emerald and is sucking on it therapeutically like a pacifier; Techno has quit his chase but still looks as if he’s contemplating drop-kicking the kid and arguing it as self-defense. 

Tommy nods and clears his throat. “Er, yeah. Found this, too.” He shoves forward the scrapbook as he hastily puts on his jacket. “Show Michael how stupid Techno looked when he first dyed his hair.” 

“Hey!” argues Techno, but Michael has already fixed his wide white eyes upon the book with a curious expression. Phil laughs and sits down, opening the book. 

Tommy watches the scene for a moment as he goes to the door. Techno looks up and gives him a terse, polite nod. Tommy returns it. Their relationship is slow-healing and the cut is still scabbing over, but they’re getting there. A year is not a very long time, but it’s long enough to have a few family dinners. Some nights, over Phil’s stew and bread, they’ll laugh about something stupid together and Tommy will forget about a league of withers, Techno will forget about a stolen axe, and betrayal will just be a word and nothing more.

\---

The cool autumn air washes over Tommy welcomingly as he leaves the nether and arrives back in the greater SMP, tucking his jacket away into his inventory. 

Tommy catches Niki leaning her head onto Puffy’s shoulder as they sit outside their new bakery and tells them both hello and Puffy goes off inside to get him a freshly-baked cookie because she's the nicest person ever. Tommy runs a hand through his hair a bit awkwardly as he’s stuck with a woman who had once wished to kill him. 

“So, er, nice weather,” he offers.

“No war or explosions, so it is definitely better than last year,” says Niki wryly, shoving her hands in the pockets of a worn trench coat, its old holes lovingly sewn shut and bloodstains washed out of it. 

There’s a beat and then they both laugh, Tommy in a cough-wheeze of surprise and Niki joining in a moment later. Something about Niki’s direct manner is more comforting than all the prevaricating everyone’s doing today and it eases some of the weight that’s been sitting on Tommy’s chest today.

Niki’s smile is genuine and her eyes are clement, not full of the barely-bridled anger of earlier this year. That, too, makes Tommy feel a bit lighter. A year is not a very long time, but it’s long enough for therapy and conversation.

Puffy returns with a bag of cookies, each nearly as big as Tommy’s hand and full with chunks of chocolates and roughly cut nuts, smelling of warm brown sugar and solace. Tommy thanks her and goes on his way.

Everyone is out and about today, as if soaking up the sunshine will force out the inherent melancholy of November 16th. Tommy can hear Quackity’s loud laugh, followed by Sapnap's and Karl’s; he’s glad that the former vice president has some joyful company today. Jack Manifold and Sam Nook are arguing over something trivial by the Big Innit Hotel when Tommy checks in on them. Bad, hoodie lined with red and not white, seems content with Ant, Sam, and Skeppy. Eret, notably not wearing their king’s cape, greets Tommy as they go off to Puffy and Niki’s bakery. Fundy is absent, off on his other server with someone who cares for him. Tommy can’t blame him, so he tries to be happy for him instead. 

Tommy goes off the Prime Path and stops atop a grassy hill that offers a wide view of the surrounding area. He can see George’s house, where Dream lives now -- he had just been moved from the prison to closely watched house arrest in the last month. George and Dream are both outside. Perceptive as ever, Dream’s uncovered eyes easily find Tommy watching him in the distance. He raises a hand in acknowledgment.

Tommy returns the gesture briefly. A year is not a very long time, but it’s long enough to learn how to be civil. 

He thinks, briefly, that Wilbur would've been proud of him for that, once.

\---

_sinceisawvienna.mp3_

Tommy turns the volume of the communicator as high as it can go and sets it onto the empty jukebox before clicking the audio file. 

Leaning back on the bench, he listens to the slightly tinny spiel of guitar come out of the small speaker. He remembers this song, from way back when -- during the formation of L'manberg, if he had to guess. The memory of the warm summer night outside the van is distant and nearly quaint. Only in this server would someone recall the brief period of peace before a war as quaint. 

Hearing his brother's low, gentle singing voice was already a lot, but it's Wilbur sniffing and going _cut that bit out_ with a light laugh that admittedly brings tears to Tommy's eyes as he stares up into the bright, unadorned sky. He isn't sure where the hell Vienna is or if it's even real, but he finds that he'd quite like to go there. 

_I'll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready_

_And I'll put down my roots when I'm dead._

Yeah, that was Wilbur -- he had formed a country to be a place of protection, to be a sanctuary, to be a home for others, and yet it was never really his own home. Oh, Wilbur and his insatiable appetite for thrills, for power, for love; always searching but never finding something, someone to satisfy him, never resting and never finding that the moment was enough. 

Well. He’s resting now, or at least Tommy hopes so. Wilbur had made mistakes upon mistakes, but he at least deserves to go into repose.

The song ends. Tommy plays it again.

Nearly a year ago, after putting Dream in prison, Tommy had said _see you soon_ to Wilbur. This had proven false; really, Tommy should’ve been less surprised that Dream didn’t truly have a revival book. Phil had tried his damnedest, but resurrection hadn’t been possible, even with his centuries of knowledge -- and Wilbur’s ghost had strangely vanished after the final disc confrontation, leaving Tommy to have to confront the twisted truth of Wilbur Soot. 

Tommy has spent a year submerged in his grief, or rather his grief was submerged in him; buried into the deepest part of himself, etched into his bones, coming in waves and ebbing away.

_Treating my memory of you like a fire --_

Wilbur’s memory was just that, the inverse of Tommy’s ocean of grief: a bonfire, blazing and bright and beseeching for attention. Tommy is in a tug-of-war between the two, now; sinking down into the sea of sorrow, scorching in the smolder and staining with soot. 

_\-- let it burn out, don’t fight it and try to move on._

He _is_ trying. He is trying so fucking hard.

A year is not a very long time, but it is a lengthy period to be without your brother.

“I miss you,” says Tommy to the empty space, vision blurred, throat closing up on itself. He can’t bring himself to tag a _bitch_ onto the end. “You were so fuckin’ horrible and I miss you so fuckin’ much.” 

And that’s the truth, isn’t it?

Wilbur had erst been a gilded idol, but his golden paint had chipped, leaving only his dirtied anima. He had been horrible, but the problem was that Tommy had found that Wilbur was not a god. He had been only flawed, only human. As easy as it was to differentiate between the victor, the founder, the hero and the loser, the destroyer, the villain, in the end it had all just been _Wilbur._ The victor, the loser; the founder, the destroyer; the hero, the villain. All of that had been Wilbur. All of that had been Tommy’s brother. 

The autumn breeze rifles the flowers around Tommy’s house behind him, cards through his hair like long, ink-stained fingers that would’ve once scuffed his head teasingly. The echoes of countless explosions play in a mental rat-a-tat accompaniment to the recording. 

As the song comes to an end again, Tommy finds comfort in the fact that there was a smaller symphony Wilbur had finished. 

When the last lyric comes up, the wind abruptly stops, somehow, no, _everything_ stops; the universe goes silent and Wilbur Soot’s long gone voice fills its void, amplified as loud as it can be. 

_I’ll be gone then, when you must be alone._

The rustling of plants immediately begins again, the world’s play button is pushed and Tommy exhales shakily, twin streams of tears finally streaming down his face. The resumed wind blows in his face and dries them gently.

Here, Tommy is alone. 

But he hasn’t drowned in his grief, he hasn’t been burned up by Wilbur’s legacy. A year is not a very long time, but it’s long enough to learn not to be swallowed up by extremes, long enough to learn to rely on others, not just himself. 

Wilbur is gone. But Tommy _isn’t_ completely alone. He has his friends and he has his family, he has healing relationships and the flawed memory of his brother.

It’s not completely okay, it’ll probably never be completely okay, but he’s getting there. 

Tommy stands and turns off the communicator. One day, he'll listen to the rest, look through the remaining files. 

But not today. Today, he'll just focus on staying afloat. And that's enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> In the first draft of this, I wrote half of a conversation between Wilbur from the afterlife and Tommy, similar to what happened at the final disc confrontation. This felt more right.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated.


End file.
